TWO O’CLOCK, EASTERN WARTIME

by John Dunning

  “No, that’s pretty clear.”

  “Then all we need to do is say good-bye.”

  “And I leave town.”

  “Please.” She leaned toward him and for a moment he thought she might take his hand. But she leaned back and said, “I just don’t need you here complicating my life.”

  He finished his beer. “There is one other thing. I heard your father died.”

  Her mouth opened but nothing came out. The shock went on: ten full seconds. Then: “My God, where’d you hear something like that?”

  “I went to Pennsylvania looking for you. The little girl next door said you told her that yourself.”

  He stared at the mirror. Her face was now cloaked in darkness.

  “It’s one of her stories,” said the voice from the void. “She lies through her teeth. She’s a sweet child and I love her but she just won’t tell the truth. Her parents must’ve told you how she lies.”

  “That was mentioned.”

  “Then there you are. My father’s never been better.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’d like to see him again.”

  Her response was slow in coming and struck him as cautious. “He always did like you, Jack. You two had a special friendship.”

  “Then I think that’s what I’ll do, go visit your dad, see if he can help me put some ghosts to rest. See where the road takes me from there.”

  “I’m sure he’d love that. Finding him might be a problem. The last I heard he was traveling in Texas.”

  “Really? He used to keep in touch all the time, as I remember it.”

  “Things change—isn’t that what we’ve just been talking about? I’m not a child anymore who’s got to be checked on every week. I’ve got my life, he’s got his. That’s how it ought to be when you grow up.”

  He said nothing and the silence turned prickly. She picked up the talk: anything to break the mood and give her a legitimate exit. “If I could tell you where he is, I would. I’m sure I’ll hear from him eventually. That’s how he is these days, still a rolling stone, but he only calls me when he moves. Three or four times a year I’ll hear from him.”

  Her voice droned on till he was aware it had stopped. When he said nothing she rose from the stool as if to leave. But there was one more shock to come and he timed it like the telling moment in a radio play. “What I still don’t understand,” he said into the mirror, “is how the kid knew about Harford.”

  She took a step backward and almost fell. He gripped her wrist and leaned into the light. “How would the kid know that name, except from you? Why would she say Harford had killed your father?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  But she knew exactly what he was talking about. She knew why he was here and how impossible it was for him to leave. She had to know that he loved her and would walk into hell to save her, even from herself. If she needed a knight, here he was, his life at her service. But his arrival had only brought her fear.

  No chance now for a graceful exit. “The hell with it,” she said, pulling away from him. “The child lies. My father’s fine. Believe what you want but that’s how it is. Now stay away from me.”

  She was gone. He watched her in the mirror as she crossed the street. She popped open her parasol and quickly became part of the faceless, madding crowd.

  ( ( ( 13 ) ))

  HE now knew that she was driven by fear. He knew the child had not lied. He believed everything was connected: Carnahan to Kendall to the Germans to March Flack, and all of them to Harford. He thought his best hope was to dig out the truth quickly. Caution was not working and time was becoming the great enemy.

  He found Mrs. Flack in her yard on the beach. He approached on the path through the dunes, and as he came around her house he saw her standing a few feet away, painting a picture. Her canvas was propped on an easel in the bright sunlight and she was wearing a large straw hat and the same faded dress. She saw him and for a moment her brush hung suspended.

  “Do I know you?”

  “We met one night. I work at the station.”

  She put down her brush and looked at him hard, and suddenly a look of excitement spread across her face. “Did they send you to fetch me? Have they got something for me to do?”

  “No ma’am, I’m sorry. I was just passing by, thought I’d say hello.”

  The light went out of her face and she shrugged. “They don’t use me much, unless they need a good Yorkshire accent. I used to do all those, but Hazel and Rue have got the general British accents fairly well. Once in a while someone wants the genuine article, and that’s me. But not today, I guess.”

  She took off her hat and looked at him in the full glare. “I remember you now. It’s Mr. Jordan, isn’t it?”

  “Jordan Ten Eyck.”

  She smiled in faint apology. “I’m sorry, I just remembered Maurice calling you Mr. Jordan. Would you like something? A Coke perhaps?”

  “If you’re having one.”

  “Come up to the porch where it’s cool.”

  He sat in a rickety chair at a plain table while she disappeared into the house. She returned with a bottle in each hand. “I’m afraid there’s no ice.”

  “It’s fine like it is.”

  She opened the bottle and the yellow foam ran out on her hand. “I’ve become addicted to these damned things,” she said. “They’re called Dopes, you know. There’s a rumor that they’re laced with drugs to keep you coming back for more.”

  Jordan nodded—he had heard this for years—and he sipped the warm syrup and licked his lips. “Here’s to dope,” he said, and she laughed merrily and touched her foaming bottle to his. Her face contained touches of mischief, nothing like the queenly presence he had met in the studio. “God, look at us, swilling it down like pagans. I can’t believe I didn’t even offer you a bloody glass.”

  He took a chance and said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Flack, a bloody glass wouldn’t be very appetizing anyway.”

  She roared with laughter. “Oh, you!” she cried, and she barked like a hyena. “Oh, you silly Americans! My God, that was a good one! Haven’t laughed like that in ages. You shouldn’t spring something like that on an old lady, Mr. Jordan.”

  “You’re not an old lady, Mrs. Flack.”

  “Well, thank you. Did I just call you Mr. Jordan? My gracious, where have my manners gone?” She sniffed and smiled and said, “Would you like a proper glass, Mr. Ten Eyck?”

  “It doesn’t taste the same in a glass.”

  “That’s the bloody truth. You’ve got to have that sucking sensation or you lose the kick they put into it. But I do wish I had some ice to offer you. Don’t have much in the way of frills these days. I get by, though. In a way it’s good not to have all those modern trappings. You feel closer to the earth when you’ve got no gas or electric.”

  “You don’t have electricity here?”

  “Haven’t had for three years now. At first I missed it terribly, but I’m used to it now. Got my oil lamps and an old wood burner to cook on. And Thomas brings me all the wood I need from across the way.”

  “Thomas?”

  “He’s my friend. Thomas Griffin, formerly of the New York stage.”

  “I’ve seen you walking with a fellow. Man with a limp and a cough.”

  “That’s Tom. Got the limp and the cough both in the war. His lungs were frightfully damaged at a place called Cantigny.”

  “Mustard gas,” Jordan said.

  She nodded. “He can’t work anymore. Couldn’t get two lines out without those coughing fits coming over him. But oh, you should’ve seen him in his good years. He was a glorious Hamlet. And he’s such a dear friend. Don’t know what I’d’ve done these six years if not for Tom.”

  He was struck by a flashing memory of his own Tom, and he wondered how he’d get into things. But she opened the door herself. “I suppose you’ve heard the stories.”

  “You mean about your husband?”

  “Well, of course every
body’s heard that story. I mean about me, Mr. Ten Eyck. The crazy woman who lives alone, waiting for a ghost to come back and tell her where he’s been the past six years.”

  He shrugged. “That’s just gossip. Not worth worrying about.”

  “It is if it affects your livelihood. You can see for yourself how little work they give me. I think I make them uncomfortable. And that’s a shame, you know, for them and for me, because I was a pretty fair radio actress in my day.”

  “I’ll bet you still are.”

  “I’ll bet I am too. I was good enough for the BBC ten years ago. I’ve got good air presence, I can sight-read with any of them, and I know what the limitations of the microphone are. This must sound terribly vain.”

  “There’s an old saying, Mrs. Flack. It ain’t bragging if it’s true.”

  “All I want is a chance to compete, to be judged in an honest audition rather than by Mr. Barnet’s notions of what I can and can’t do. I get nothing but stuffy old English dowagers or widows of Regent Street shopkeepers. And not much of that anymore.”

  He thought a moment about what to say next. “I’ll tell you something if it won’t offend you. I don’t mean it to.”

  “Oh my, that sounds dire.”

  “It’s not, really. Just a little observation. I think they see you as a recluse. That’s what I’ve been led to believe, that you’d rather not be bothered with the day-to-day stuff of radio.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “But I think that’s the perception.”

  “A perception that begins and ends with Mr. Barnet. He’s been running things for so long, now it’s spread to the rest of them. The fact is, I’d love to be one of their insiders. But it’s not going to happen.”

  “Why couldn’t it?”

  “Ask them that. Barnet would tell you he doesn’t have that many roles that call for British accents, which is ridiculous. As if the ability to do dialect is solely an American accomplishment.”

  Jordan was struck at once by the truth of this. “You’re right, it makes no sense.”

  “It’s ridiculous. Why should my ability to talk American be any more in question than Hazel’s skills with British? We’re both actresses! I can do American! I can do Brooklyn! I could do a gun moll right out of Damon Runyon if they’d let me, or a Negro from the South if they needed one. But when they did Uncle Tom’s Cabin last year, I wasn’t even invited to a reading. Barnet was afraid I’d play Topsy like Alice in Wonderland, I suppose.”

  “This might be a stupid question, but have you ever told them this?”

  She gave a sad little half laugh. “You’ve put your finger on my problem, all right. I’m too proud for me own good. Too proud to go groveling to the likes of Clay Barnet.”

  “He’s not the whole ball of wax over there.”

  “Well, he almost is. Or was, before Mr. Kidd arrived. I keep hearing rumors that changes are in the works. Do you think that’s true?”

  “I hear the same rumors.”

  “Let me know, would you, if Mr. Kidd plans to audition people. You’d be in a position to know, and I’d be thrilled to try out for something, especially one of those meaty continuing roles. Something like that would turn my lights back on.”

  “We’ve got a new director now,” Jordan said. “I don’t know if you’d heard. His name is Maitland. He’s been here a month.”

  “Maitland! You’re kidding!”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of course! I worked for him in New York in nineteen thirty-four! He was at WOR and we were fresh off the boat from Liverpool. He was wonderful!”

  “A big teddy bear, gray and easygoing.”

  “Yes, yes, what splendid news this is! My God, how could I not have known this?”

  “You’ve got to get out more, Mrs. Flack.” He smiled shyly. “You don’t want to become a self-fulfilled prophecy. A recluse because they think you are.”

  She gripped his hand. “Jesus, that’s exactly what I’m doing! This business of Maitland proves it. Jordan, you’ve saved my life!”

  “Really, Mrs. Flack . . .”

  “No more ‘Mrs. Flack.’ Please, you must call me Pauline. Oh, Jordan, do you know what this means? All the rumors are true! Harford is coming back! It’s all happening again! The promise of those old days is finally going to be fulfilled.”

  His silence cast her hope in doubt and she was immediately desperate to retrieve it. “But what else could it mean? With Maitland here again, what else could it mean?”

  He sat up in his chair. “Was Maitland here before?”

  “For a little while, yes.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  “Just filling in. Our program director was leaving for New York and Dedrick came down as a favor to Harford.”

  “So he didn’t intend to stay.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I only talked to him a few times then. I remember he was tempted to stay, but he had another offer in Chicago. And Harford seemed to be retreating. I guess Maitland didn’t see the commitment he needed.”

  “So Barnet was made director instead.”

  “Yes, and nothing’s been the same since.”

  Jordan sat still and let this play in his mind.

  “Those were such exciting times,” she said. “There wasn’t anything Harford wouldn’t try, no taboos he wouldn’t challenge. Our morale couldn’t possibly have been any higher. We had a lot of people come through here then.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “All kinds of talent. Not just Maitland—Harford brought in actors and musicians and directors and programmers. And there were lawyers too. That’s when we knew he was serious about seeing what could and couldn’t be done on the air. The place was alive with activity and ideas. But then Jocelyn died and it all just fell apart. She was a glorious person, Jordan, and she took to radio like no one I’ve seen before or since. There are people like that, you know, dyed-in-the-wool radio people. They come to it whole, with such infallible instincts, they don’t need any apprenticeship because it’s so natural to them. It makes me sad just to think of her. A very kind and lovely lady, and Harford just worshiped her. This place was supposed to be a tribute to her talent. They were going to take on the world together. They brought in a programmer to help them plot the station’s direction. I remember seeing the four of them walking together on the beach—Harford and Jocelyn, Maitland and this new man who was going to run the station.”

  “Did you ever find out who the new man was?”

  “He wasn’t here long enough. You’ll have to forgive me . . . I haven’t thought of him from that day to this.”

  But she thought of him now and a sudden flash of surprise crossed her face. “He was a thin man, I remember that. A tall man, thin and serious, with a rather large head . . .”

  They looked at each other. He waited and let her say it.

  “Kidd.”

  She said it again. “Kidd. Who else could it have been?”

  This discovery thrilled her anew. “Now do you see it? Do you understand it now? The station is truly coming to life. It’s taken Harford all these years to get past that tragedy and now he’s ready again.”

  Jordan sipped his Dope, took his time. Then he said, “Do you remember when that was, when you saw them walking together on the beach?”

  “Of course. I remember exactly. The first week in June, nineteen thirty-six. I’ll never forget that time. It was just a few weeks before my husband disappeared.”

  ( ( ( 14 ) ))

  FOR a few minutes at the turning of the tide the sea was glassy and still. The wind had died to nothing and the waves lapped listlessly at the shoreline. Jordan sat still, thinking vastly different thoughts from what Mrs. Flack must be thinking as she stared past his shoulder at the gulls dipping over the beach. Leave her be for a few moments, he thought; let her savor her brighter prospects and she’ll be happier when the hard questions come. But when it started again, the talk between them was as natural and easy as
it had been from the start.

  “It’s not like what you’ve been hearing. I know what they say about me—that crazy woman, pining away for a man who’s gone and left her—but it wasn’t like that. March and I had a fairly stormy life together. I knew he had lots of affairs. I don’t think there was a time in the twenty years we were together when he didn’t have something going on the side. He got in a terrible scandal in England. That’s why we came over here, but it never stopped. I threatened so many times to leave him, but he was in my blood and I was in his, and after a while it didn’t seem to matter so much. I know he loved me, it just wasn’t in his nature to be faithful. And though I raised hell when he dallied, we always made it up, and I knew I’d never leave him and he’d never leave me.”

  “Then what do you think happened to him?”

  “He ran afoul of someone. I can’t think of any other answer.”

  “Any idea who might’ve harmed him, or why?”

  “No, and believe me, I’ve thought of everyone.”

  “Was there an investigation?”

  “Such as it was. The sheriff here isn’t exactly Scotland Yard.”

  “Same sheriff then and now?”

  “Yes, he’s a hail-fellow-well-met, pals around with everyone, and seems to be in the job for life. The less work he does, the better he likes it. From the start he leaned toward the easy theory, that March had left town with a young woman.”

  “Any particular young woman?”

  Her cheeks turned red. “March had, uh, known one young woman for two months. She had just left town and the theory was that March had gone with her.”

  “Did the sheriff ever talk to her?”

  “Says he tried. Tracked her to Detroit, all on the telephone, talked to her sister there, learned she’d been through town a few days earlier. Supposedly she’d gone to Canada to start a new life. And she had a man with her. The sister had never met him, and he might have been anyone from Winston Churchill to the man in the moon. But based on that, with nothing more to go on, he concluded that it was March.”